The 57th Annual Hunger Games: By The Blood Of The Children
by ASimpleMind94
Summary: Suppression has been maintained for millennia in order to govern the world's population. But in this day and age, where humans are deemed 'civilized'; something as abhorrent as the Hunger Games should be seen as too extreme, but this year the Gamemakers are definitely pushing the boundaries as to what 'civilized' beings would describe as being 'too extreme' SYOT OPEN
1. A Word Of Warning

**Good Evening you beautiful people,**

**So, I've decided to write a SYOT. I love these stories and so I thought: Why not? But rather than rambling let's get to my prologue of sorts…**

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It was decreed 57 years ago that the districts must pay for their sins, the sin of fighting for their freedom. The sin of wanting to escape the oppressive tyranny of the Capitol; this price isn't with money. It is paid with blood: The blood of their children. Children are made to atone for the sins of their forefather's, something they never had control over.

In what brutal manner are these children made to pay the cost of their ancestors 'treason'? Each year 23 children are mercilessly lined up to be slaughtered; the white satin of their innocence is spoiled by the corrupt Capitol. Their suffering seen as nothing but prime time entertainment, called a pageant when it is nothing more than a plague upon the Districts of Panem. This twisted pageant is called the 'Hunger Games'.

A political weapon utilised to devastate families and prevent history from repeating itself, an insurance policy for what has been christened 'The Dark Days'. The anniversary of the people's plight for freedom, fuelled by hope: The one thing the Hunger Games were engineered to crush while fertilizing the seeds of grief, pain and sorrow that grow throughout the Districts.

The Treaty of Treason decrees: ' _Each District must offer two tributes, one male and one female between the ages of 12 and 18 to compete in an arena; in a battle to the death. The last tribute standing shall be named the Victor'_

And so, this year marks the 57th Annual Hunger Games. An orchestrated monstrosity where another 23 children will perish; another 23 will join the 1,288 innocents who have lost out on the opportunity to love, laugh and most of all live. While another person will join the 'elite' group of Victors, who survived the glorified bloodbath: To live a haunted life, constantly remembering the atrocities they've been forced to endure. All in the name of entertainment, of course.

Now let the 57th Annual Hunger Games begin, a communal killing celebrated as a festivity. 23 shall feel the cold embrace of death; the very embrace that some would welcome. A chance to leave behind a world where they may have never known kindness or joy, to live without the constant threat that their close ones could be taken away at any moment for nothing more than to appease the Capitol's seemingly endless blood thirst.

Suppression has been maintained for millennia in order to govern the world's population, it always has been. But in this day and age, where the human race is deemed 'civilized'; something as abhorrent as the Hunger Games should be seen as too extreme but alas, this year the Gamemakers are definitely pushing the boundaries as to what 'civilized' beings would describe as being 'too extreme'.

Without further ado, welcome to the 57th Annual Hunger Games. But lest not forget, the odds will never be in your favour.

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**Let me know what you think via review :) Then I can send you my tribute form; Ideally it would be one person per tribute... but we shall see how that goes.**

**And if you want to submit, or have any ideas or things you'd like to see lemme know.**

**Muchos Gracias x**


	2. A Scheme Brought To Life

_**I posted the last chapter at an awkward time, and I still need tributes so I had the genius idea of simply writing another chapter. I don't know if I would class this as fillerish, since it is relevant to the story and will give more of a flavour for my writing. **_

_**Anyways, no more rambling on my behalf…**_

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_**Cassiopeia Castleton, Self-Proclaimed Gamemaker Extraordinaire.**_

"Heavensbee, why are we still here? I was meant to be going to the spa, and I've been slaving away for hours. Which is pointless, Hardwick hasn't decided on which arena to use…" Yes, I was whining incessantly. One of the many reasons that a vast majority my co-workers thought that my appointment as a Senior Gamemaker was some sic k joke or the consequence of me opening my legs for one of the big guns: Pretentious fools.

"Castleton, Snow is breathing down our necks: He hasn't been impressed with the last few games. The intake in sponsorship from the Capitol was at a record low, and let me just say that Snow has made it very clear that it will be out heads on the line if these games are not 'epic'." I would roll my eyes, I may be blonde but that blonde came from a bottle.

I am well aware of our President's displeasure, but the one who has something to fear is that bitch Hardwick: The games begin in a little over two months, the arena should be mostly complete and the mutt prototypes submitted to the genetics department at least two weeks ago. It's not my fault that the supposed 'Head Gamemaker' is incompetent, something I am not averse to voicing aloud.

"Right, what you're saying is because of your silly infatuation with Hardwick; we're picking up her slack so she doesn't get hung, drawn and quartered. Metaphorically of course?" Over Hardwick's dead body am I overworking myself, and sacrificing vital time that could be spent on my intensive beauty regime to do her job. She gets paid to do it, so she should do: Logic never lies.

"W-what are you t-trying to imply Cassiopeia?" Plutarch Heavensbee, love sick puppy with his round belly and ridiculous platinum ringlets: I mean, Gamemakers may spend most of their time working, but couldn't he take five minutes for a bit of lunchtime lipo? If he had his way, Hardwick would be on his arm and he'd be up there with her delegating tasks to the rest of us while they canoodled like the idiots I know them to be.

"Plutarch, you were never the sharpest tool in the box. Hardwick is more than likely going to be dead by the times these games finish, yes you think she is 'divine' or whatever else your lucid imagination can conjure; but face facts, we need to decide who we're backing to replace her and get in their good books: We may be 'senior' but we're most definitely at the bottom of the barrel but a little shift in power can have some pretty big consequences. Namely a promotion and not having to listen to you moon over Hardwick constantly. "

As clueless as ever, his amethyst coloured eyes show a complete lack of understanding. And he has the nerve to call me stupid behind my back? If I wanted to have to explain everything to everyone I would've become a teacher.

"Right, Hardwick delegated the jobs of mutt development and arena construction to us because 1. The woman is lazy and secondly, we're good at what we do. Yes, I am vain and yes I can seem vapid at times…but that doesn't mean I am incapable, you find one flaw with any of the mutts or traps that I've been commissioned to design. Hardwick has her favourites, her little sycophants who also coast by doing absolutely nothing and darling, you're not one of her favourites: I don't want to sound like a bitch but I overheard her laughing with some of the girls about the roses you sent her. But when she's gone, if we're in the back pocket of whoever succeeds her then we'll be the favourites. We will be the ones reaping the rewards: guzzling cocktails while it's someone else slaving over the arena for once."

The whole time Plutarch has been staring at me as if I have grown another head. I would roll my eyes, but I don't want to run the risk of giving myself repetitive strain injury; I gather up my purse with every intention of leaving. Plutarch's eyes well up, and I will him not to cry since first of all I know for a fact that he is an ugly crier and if we're being blunt: I have more important things to do than pander over some overgrown orang-utan.

"By the way, I'd recheck your calculations on Project Y. I looked over them and they seem to be a little off, you could always have the physics department look over them or something. Toodles." I walk away then, without looking back. Sympathy is nothing but a waste of time, but I hope what I've been trying to tell him has sunk into the dimwit's skull; and if the sounds of his pathetic wailing is anything to go by as the elevator doors close, I'd hazard a guess at saying it most definitely has.

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Lounging in my bath, surrounded by the delicate aroma of freesia and strawberries: I can actually relax. I was asked to have a word with Plutarch the Prick, which I did and now I've earned some time to myself. Namely pampering myself to within an inch of my life while consuming copious amount of Gordon's cookie dough ice cream; thank the Capitol for laxatives is all I have to say on the matter.

I hum aloud to one of Capri's latest songs 'District Disaster' as I waltz through my spacious yet artistically and impeccably designed apartment; exhibit A of my proficiency for interior design as well as being able to bring the nightmares of District brats to life. I amaze myself with how diverse my talents are, as well as how talented I am in the first place; I continue to think about how fabulous I am since pampering one's ego is almost as important making sure you look stunning in public. That is until I hear the latest new report being delivered in Claudius Templesmith's nasally baritone.

'…_the body of Head Gamemaker, Hamratia Hardwick was found in her penthouse apartment. The suspected cause of death is a morphling overdose, and the case is not being treated as suspicious; but I did always say that something wasn't right with that woman. Too laid back to not be on drugs, and with that hideous maroon hair…a lesson to you kids, maroon is never your colour….Oh, one second: ummm… her interim placement for the duration of this year's Annual Hunger Games is none other than Seneca Crane. Bachelor, fashionista and the youngest Head Gamemaker in the last 20 years…'_

That conniving bastard, he acted a lot quicker than I suspected. Claudius Templesmith is still listing the 500 reasons why Seneca Crane will become the saviour of the Hunger Games, I on the other hand had a phone call to make. I activate my earpiece, before dialling Mr. Crane's personal phone: I suppose congratulations are in order, plus the idiot would never have even thought of usurping Hardwick if it wasn't for some gentle prodding on my behalf. So I think it's fair to say he owes me, the device rings twice before he answers.

'_Cassie, I take it you heard the good news?' _I can practically inhale his arrogance. The fatal flaw of man, note not woman.

"Yes, I would never have known you were jockeying for the role of Head Gamemaker. It is a complete surprise." Crane laughs and I can't help but smile; he knows that despite my narcissistic tendencies, I am a snarky bitch. A snarky, cunning bitch: Perfectly capable of devising a plan to replace Hardwick while still attending every session of my laser hair removal treatment, how about that for time management?

'_Ah, I could've sworn that you were the devil sitting on my shoulder. But let's screw the niceties, we both know they're a waste of our precious time. You're my assistant and we're going to make these games the most sensational in history, I've been given funding for more staff to ensure that the arena is complete but I need someone to brief the newcomers as well as help me design the most horrific arena. Interested?'_

"Oh Seneca, you know I love it when you talk business. I suppose I could help, I am after all the one who gave you the idea to utilise your potential and become something other than Hardwick's lackey; and I have one or two ideas that will definitely haunt the Districts for years to come. But what do I get?" Men truly are incapable are succeeding without women, President Snow may be the only exception to that rule. Either way, if he thinks I'm doing his job for him like I did for Hardwick; he has another thing coming.

'_Well I was hoping to discuss some ideas with you over dinner, as well as inform you of your new title: Miss. Assistant Head Gamemaker'. _ I almost scream with glee, but if you let Crane know you're impressed his ego is known to inflate. Who screwed their way to the top? Not Cassiopeia Castleton, she got there by being devious as hell and a little talented.

"Well I suppose I could meet you for a late dinner. Zimbodo, 8.00pm. Dress to impress, I am sure that papparazi want nothing more than to snatch a shot of the newest Head Gamemaker." I hang up without waiting for a response. Now it is time to proceed to stage two of my little scheme; get Seneca Crane in my bed and wrapped around my little finger. Which shouldn't be too hard since every man is notorious for thinking with their genitalia. But I suppose he does deserve a little reward for his promotion. The biggest question is red lingerie or black?

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**Another chapter down, now I like Cassie and think she could be a good Capitol POV throughout the story. What do you think?**

**Quick word of warning: Chapters will be getting longer. Not gargantuan, but between 4-7,000 words shortly. I like reading longer chapters, if you'd rather have shorter ones though...let me know**

**Anyways, I need me some tributes so I can get down to the nitty, gritty and start the games. One more Capitol chapter might happen before we hit the districts; I've got my Capitol plot ready… just deciding when things should happen.**

**Any betas out there? More for helping with ideas, so it'd be nice for the person to not submit a tribute to prevent 'conflict of interests' ;)**

**Hmmm…REVIEW **

**Muchos Gracias, my lovelies x**


	3. Games To Remember

**Another chapter coming your way, a Capitol chapter… before I start just writing tributes as I get them! I have like 3 completed forms so far, so I can run with that.**

**Time to meet President Snow.**

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**Coriolanus Snow, President of Panem.**

The scent of the genetically enhanced roses is not enough to soothe my simmering fury, the sores that line my mouth throb with my silent rage: The scars that mark my calculated rise to power ache. Ache due to the growing threat against my carefully crafted tyranny; the iron fist with which I rule the nation of Panem is being wrenched open by the one thing more powerful than the fear I have instilled within the Districts.

Hope, which has the capability of being either my greatest ally or worst enemy. But recently the Capitol's way of supressing hope, The Hunger Games, have been lacklustre: The Capitol slowly losing interest, the Districts still fear death but without the Capitol fully supporting the games there has been talk of 'unnecessary cruelty'.

Some Capitolites have even ventured into the tempestuous waters of sympathising with the lower beings. And I have had to arrange a fair few 'accidents' in order to stop this sympathy from spreading like wildfire; we must stop seeing the District scum as human. Reinforce our superiority, or highlight their inferiority; maintain the divide between the Capitol and the Districts.

With the Capitol backing the Districts, we lose our greatest advantage: The District's separation; if they become aware of the unease in my Capitol, they will not be losing their children and solidifying my control. They will be creating martyrs and from this anarchy will be born. Unacceptable. But one does not climb the political ladder without being resourceful and creating solutions to the problems before them.

I press the speaker, needing not speak. My secretary is efficient enough to know what I want, my appointments are planned to the minute and today I have only one appointment. A very important appointment. Almost instantaneously the door to my office is opened, an Avox shows in my guest before leaving as quickly and quietly as they arrived.

Before me in Seneca Crane, a man in a very precarious position: As the replacement to Hamratia Hardwick, he was pretty confident that he can restore the games to the former glory. Have every Capitolite glued to their projection systems, thirsting for the blood of the tributes rather than spouting nonsense of how 'unfair' or 'unneeded' the games are. And if he fails, I have made it very aware that there will be rather devastating consequences not only for him; but for everyone that he has ever loved.

Rather than taking a seat, he stands there eerily still: If I were capable of taste, I know that with every breathe I take I would be breathing in the bitter taste of his fear. Instead I stare at him, my face an expressionless mask: Taking in how he nervously tugs at his tie or periodically runs his hands through his geometrically trimmed beard.

"Seneca, why so tense? Take a seat, you standing there is making me feel unhospitable. Which we both know is untrue." He shuffles forward cautiously, eyes trained on me like a field mouse coming face to face with a predator. A rational response, yet a stark contrast to his usual arrogance; maybe he bears news that could invoke my ire. Which would be very inconvenient, replacing a Head Gamemaker two weeks after their appointment; especially this close to the games.

"Thank you, sir." Seneca's eyes are now trailing the intricate carvings of my mahogany desk. His voice quiet, but it didn't quiver as I had anticipated. Maybe Crane may actually be competent and manage to nip this issue in the bud; allowing the necessary oppression of the Districts to return to full bloom.

"Now, how about you tell me about your proposal over a glass of brandy. Only the finest for then man who will turn the Hunger Games around after all." I don't respond as his eyes widen in fear, or when he flinches as I ghost past him to retrieve a bottle of Frederico's finest cognac. I pour two generous servings, offering one to my guest: If I were not above snorting I would of when he tries to discretely sniff the glass.

"Oh Seneca, my toxin of choice is undetectable. But fear not, if I wanted to kill you I would simply have a bullet put through your skull by one of my bodyguards." I tilt my head to the left as his Adam's apple bobs, but eventually he takes a large gulp of the brandy; his face scrunching up as the fire burns through his chest. When he regains his composure he places a portable projector onto the table, inputs a code and I am shown the design of this year's arena; my collagen inflated lips spread across my face as holograms of installed traps and mutts become available for me to swipe through.

"Well done, Mr. Crane. It seems as though you will live to see the end of these games." I waste no time in scrutinizing every detail of the arena, looking at it from every angle: Looking for one flaw, but that is almost impossible. I barely notice the audible sigh of relief from the Head Gamemaker, I tune out as he begins to explain the rate of development and the more pragmatic elements of the arena but that is of no concern. All I need to know is that this is the key to recapturing the interest of the Capitol, and reinstating hope as a quantifiable entity of which I have complete control.

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**Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker.**

As I leave the President's office I cannot help but walk with my head held a little higher, my shoulders held back: I have no doubt that I am the epitome of arrogance in this moment. Justifiably so, after all I am responsible for creating an arena exactly to President Snow's 'tastes': I was pretty ambitious to say it's my first year as Head Gamemaker, but you have to take risks. Even if you're risking your life, as I am; but I have no doubt that these games will be one of the most memorable and this risk will pay off.

I've always been desired, admired and feared by many; but when I reap the benefits of creating the most horrific Hunger Games of recent years, I will be respected. I will be an asset to the Capitol, a celebrity; my name will be whispered among the District's. Feared as the creator of Hunger Games where nobody leaves unscathed.

Where people fear more than death or physical anguish: They will fear for their sanity, humanity and dignity. And the best part of it all is that I'll be bathing in money while they bathe in blood. The shrill ringtone of my tele-communicator brings me back to the real world; now isn't the time to fantasise about how I will become the most celebrated Head Gamemaker of all time and one of the most feared men in Panem: Now I have to head back to the labs and make sure that this fantasy becomes a reality.

"Crane speaking." Short and straight to the point, no time for frivolity when I am on the brink of fame after all.

'_Seneca, we're almost finished with basic construction. We need you here to sign off on a few things, I've finished with mutt development although I am having neuro-scientist's look over the cognitive programming. So how did it go?'_ I smile as I hear Cassie's voice, if it weren't for her pushing me to the limit: I would be nothing but another Gamemaker. The fact she is a vixen in the bedroom, and eerily efficient in the workplace is just a bonus alongside my status

"Oh Cass, I was almost a wreck. But I knew my idea would blow his mind so I was relaxed. Anyways, we have more money in the budget so hit the drawing board: We need more mutts, more devastating traps. Oh, and have a bottle of champagne delivered to my office; I think I deserve to celebrate." I can't help but be a bit smug, I have impressed President Snow: The hardest man to impress in the whole nation. Cassie just responds with a laugh, a mirthless laugh that makes my spine tingle.

' Seneca, our idea is what you were saying. Right? By the way, I'll be joining you for a glass of champagne before hitting the labs again. Don't forget that without me you would be nothing more than Plutarch Heavensbee, plus I expect you to take me to dinner before we celebrate properly tonight." Without waiting for a response the line goes dead, Cassie has probably gone to torment junior Gamemaker's which has become a favourite pastime of hers. Her innuendo doesn't go unnoticed as I feel blood rush to my groin.

As I leave the compound, escorted by a quadrant of Snow's personal security that seemingly appeared from nowhere, I have to put on some sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glare of flashes coming from the paparazzi camped at the gates. I smirk as I hear them screaming my name, adoration colours their tone. Security begins to move toward the journalists, their intent is clearly to get rid of my fans, but I hold my hand up and stop them in their tracks.

"Don't worry I can deal with this." A truer statement never spoken, I was beginning to like my newfound status as a 'celebrity'. I take off my sunglasses and give the crowd my most charming smile, showing off my most recent cosmetic enhancement: My ivory veneers, before homing on a particular reporter: A woman with midnight blue hair and legs that went on for miles. Yes, this is certainly something I could grow accustomed to.

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'_Hello, this is Janelle Hodgetts. Your leading reporter for 'Panem Today', and I am here with our Head Gamemaker. The gorgeous Seneca Crane. Now Seneca, can I call you that?'_

'_Of course, who am I to say no to such a beautiful woman?'_

'_Stop it, you're getting me all flustered. Now tell me, what can our wonderful audience expect from these games? '_

'_Well you know I can't give away all of the secrets, I know how much you all adore a big surprise. But let me say this, after showing our gracious President the designs he has given us an extended budget; as a gift to the Capitol of course. To make everything bigger and better: I guarantee you that the 57__th__ Annual Hunger Games will be something you don't want to miss; I risk sounding arrogant but these will the games to remember and no one wants to miss out on the drama. I hate to cut this short Janelle, but I have to be heading back to the office: A lot of work to do for all of you.'_

'_That's fine Seneca, I am Janelle Hodgetts for 'Panem Today' and you heard it here first: The 57__th__ Annual Hunger Games will be one to remember, so don't miss out.'_

President Coriolanus Snow sits in his armchair watching the interview that was given outside of his complex. He was certain that he had made the right decision in appointing Crane as Head Gamemaker; he was well aware that the man lacked actual talent. Relying on Cassiopeia Castleton to do the actual game making but he had charisma. Enough charisma that would ensure that all eye's we on the Hunger Games this year, and with that thought a grotesque smile curled the aging tyrant's overly large lips: He knew that Seneca Crane's words would come to truthful fruition, the 57th Annual Hunger Games are not to be missed, for they will be the games to remember.

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**Another short one, I know :/**

**But quick updates will get more readers, and get me some more tributes :) If you haven't submitted yet then please do… I'll bake you some cookies!**

**REVIEW, plus what do you think the arena should be? **

**Muchos Gracias xx**


	4. Everyday Teenage Life

**Please don't shoot me ;)**

**I know that I haven't updated in the longest while, and I am genuinely sorry… but I have had the worst luck. First, I am doing my companies annual dance show which kept me busy and then BAZINGA! My laptop, Bertie, decided to have a meltdown.**

**But, silver lining, I have had the chance to plan where I want the story to go and such :) But hey, let's meet some tributes.**

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**Megan 'Meggie' Fowler, 13, District 5.**

"Grande ronde de jambe en l'air, arabesque, piqué turns en manège…" My body responds automatically to the commands of 'Madame' Ager, although I do spare a thought to pity the poor man that somehow ended up married to the tyrant. Eva told me that she actually married her refrigerator, it sounds ridiculous but taking into account her size. It seems like a genuine possibility.

Banging that stick on the floor and constantly berating us for 'poor alignment' or 'dreadful technique'. Please, I would actually listen to the human foghorn if she could actually do any of the things she is paid to 'teach' rather than sit there with a face that looks like she's severely constipated.

Fat oaf, if she weren't so obsessed with fantasizing about the next super-sized meal she'll be ramming down her throat; she might've noticed that she's completely off beat and the whole junior company looks like a brigade of baboons. Myself and a few others excluded, since we possess the basic ability to count to eight and the beautiful thing known as rhythm.

But either way, I swallow the barrage of insults tittering on the tip of my tongue: Firstly, if the oaf decides to tell my parents about my tendency to ignore the 'sacred rituals of ballet' then I'll find myself with a one way ticket to destination grounded.

Which really does suck, and secondly: If I don't want to waste my life away in the monotonous factories, then I actually need to be able to do something. I can't really sew or be some 'housewife' locked away like a porcelain doll; so I dance. And like Madame Asshole, I will charge extortionate amounts to 'teach' young girls the classic art form: Or just sit there and be a bitter Betty who resents my students for my own shortcomings.

"Mademoiselle Fowler, your feet should be plantar flexed. Your développé should be higher. Always lost in your own little world, wasting your potential…" I'm pretty sure she's still talking but I am shocked, as shocked as Jenny Saunders was when we all saw her brother and his girlfriend of the time locked in a 'passionate embrace'; making the two-backed beast or whatever our literature tutor rambles on about.

She is standing up, it's a miracle. Someone threw Shamoo back out of the ocean; it grew legs and is hobbling around the dance studio causing a series of mini earthquakes with every step. I do try to pay attention, I really do but it's futile: How can I listen to what this woman is saying when her multiple chins are performing a high energy salsa for the world to see? Or maybe how she is literally drenched in sweat from the great effort of standing up and moving less than ten feet?

I cringe in sheer horror as she actually grabs my leg to correct my placement, now technically there is nothing inappropriate about it. Apart from the fact that I can actually feel her excess 'flabbage' pressed against my back; this is going to cost my parents a lot in therapy, as in enough to biologically engineer themselves a whole new daughter due to the fact I might actually kill myself from being in such close proximity with the Ager-Beast.

I catch the eye of my best boo Greta who seems to find my current situation amusing, laughing while Ager's attempts at correcting my technique strongly resemble a hooker on a pole; I flip her the classic middle finger. I'm not too fussed because I know that if our roles were reversed I'd probably give myself a hernia from rolling on the floor in laughter.

Eventually Ager-Beast has decided that everything is in order and hobbles back to her chair in the corner, a chair that I strongly believe is reinforced with titanium or genetically modified material that can somehow hold her weight. I take extra care to ensure she doesn't have a reason to come near me again, my technique polished and my placements perfect because if I am exposed to her vile body odour again there is no doubt in my mind that I will die from inhaling the toxic fumes. I can see it now on the coroner's report, cause of death: _Asphyxiation due to prolonged exposure to the pungent aroma exuded by the creature known as the Ager-Beast._ And what a tragedy that would be.

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Eventually we're freed, after some more shenanigans: namely Trixie Barton falling flat on her face and being hugged by the Ager-Beast. I should sympathise with her, but the look on her face was too funny: She looked as though she was about to jump out of a window, not that any of us would've blamed her of course. Eventually we find ourselves outside of 'Ager Arts Studio' which is basically a room in an old apartment block; and let me confess, I have never been so glad to inhale the air pollution of District 5.

"Freedom! Freedom girls!" I throw myself to onto the ground, kissing and caressing the concrete. My flair for theatrics sets my friends off laughing like rabid hyenas; I don't know why they aren't humping the floor like rabbits. We've escaped for a grand total of 3 days: 3 days we will be spared the torment of having to watch Ager-Beast stuffing her face with 'salad'. Seriously though, someone needs to let her know that drenching the salad in dressing kind of warrants the 'healthy' aspect of the meal useless.

"Meggie, stop being an idiot. Would you rather be doing engineering 101 or whatever it is people do?" Now that is a sobering thought; dance lessons with the Ager-Beast spare us the horror of the dreaded 'engineering elective'. All I know is that the classes are full of creeps and there's a rumour that the teacher is a cannibal; Ager may never stop eating, but I am pretty sure that she'd never try to eat me and even if she did I'm sure I could out run her. Or point in the opposite direction and scream 'CAKE'. Both have a good chance of success.

"Greta, why do you always have to hose my spirit down? You're like a fun vacuum. Can't I be glad that we have 3 whole days off from Ager, and it may as well be 3 days off from everything… Academics with Mr Wheeler do not count, because rather than listen to a word he says I admire his beautiful backside in those tight trousers he wears."

What can I say? Mr Wheeler is hot, with his blonde hair and green eyes; if only I was 18, we'd be running off into the sunset but we must deny our love due to the 'social constraints'. Greta must have sensed the direction of my thoughts because she smacks me across the back of the head, pretty hard too. I'm sure that classes as domestic abuse. But before she can give me her usual verbal beat down that accompanies the physical abuse, Rainey steps in.

"You do know is getting married. Right? So you may as well kiss goodbye to your sordid fantasies now so I don't have to tolerate your whining when he ties the knot. And then, you can actually study rather than copy me: Win, win situation… plus, you do realise then only reason we get off dance is because of Reaping day. So I am pretty sure you wouldn't mind tolerating the Ager-Beast if it meant getting out of the Reaping."

Wow. I am speechless, which is a very rare occurrence I'll have you know. I don't know if it's the fact that Rainey has spoken more than five words at one time, which is a rarity in itself as well as being more than a little bit snappy; that's mine or Greta's forte. Or maybe the fact that she's brought up Reaping day; me and my little posse are a mismatched group from me being a loudmouth to Greta's 'maturity' and then Rainey's quiet diligence but one common thing is our belief that ignorance is bliss.

I do feel sorry for the poor kids dragged off to the Capitol, I take flowers to the cemetery every year but I consciously don't think about the games at all. I am safe, I don't take out tesserae at all and none of my friends do; we're not rich but let's just say that I know 12 year olds who have about 40 times the amount of slips in the reaping bowl compared to us. It may be selfish, but I'm glad that their poverty effectively shields me from the Hunger Games; I'm just not built for the whole 'fight to the death' thing. We stay quiet for a while, everyone lost in their thoughts about Reaping day; I literally feel butterflies in my stomach.

"Girls, have you heard about Orton Briars…. Newly single." I throw out the first bit of gossip I can think of, and everyone clings to it like a life line. Like I said, I'm not one for deep philosophical stuff: namely issues of life and death and the Hunger Games. And it seems like we're all likeminded as we continue to chit chat about 'safe' topics like hot boys and why on Earth Gracie Carter decided to chop all of her hair off and any worries about Reaping Day disappear like smoke in the wind as we all head home.

* * *

"How was your art elective Meggie? Are you sure I can't sway you to transfer into the engineering class?" I roll my eyes, I swear that every time we sit around the dinner table we have the same conversation: My dad is so obsessed with engineering he should've been born in District 3. I once asked mom if there was a possibility that Dad had ran off and left a robot in his place who said the same thing every day, she thought it was joke: I was being deadly serious.

"Dance was awesome, and no. I'd rather cut off my feet than do something as boring as engineering; equations and that kind of crap and me do not mix. Like one of those isotope things." Dad chuckles, his blue eyes that are an exact replica of mine shining in mirth. Sometimes I get a little ticked off how everyone thinks I'm joking 24/7: I am actually being deadly serious, but I let it slide. Dad just goes on, alternating between rubbing his pot belly and pushing his glasses up his nose.

We sit in silence; Dad is pre-occupied with the crossword. Chewing on his lip in concentration, Mom is in the kitchen rustling up something to eat and singing to herself as per usual. It wouldn't be so bad if she could actually sing. In order to save my ears from this torture I decide to take a quick trip to the wondrous world of imagination, fantasizing about how soft 's lips would be. I'm pretty sure I'm probably drooling, but who cares; my fantasy goes down a more 'R rated' route but before the big finale I'm brought back into reality by Mom waving her hand in front of my face. Damn.

"Megan, you really need to learn to focus; one day you'll drift off so far into the clouds. And then you'll never come back." I'm sure she's trying to be reproachful, but like Dad she is incapable of sounding serious; they must take happy pills or something. They're always so upbeat. Mom and Dad sit freakishly close holding hands and feeding each other; I would barf at how weird it is. But hey, some kids have those parents who're screaming at each other constantly: My sickly sweet parents are definitely the preferable choice.

Dinner goes on as normal, Dad talks about work and then Mom will go on about all the charities she works with and how the world is all rainbows and unicorns. I supply a commentary of scoffing and rolling my eyes, I am a teenager after all. I decide to moan about my tutors and how much homework I have when we have coffee after our meal, I may as well contribute to the conversation. And that is why my life isn't so bad, it can be repetitive but I can only imagine how it is for some of the kids out there: Counting down the minutes until their fate is decided by a slip of paper in the Reaping bowl.

* * *

**I haven't updated in a while… so I thought I would give you what I have. Meet Meggie, courtesy of the wonderful HarryPotter-Divergent. **

**It was meant to have the perspective of the D1 male, Obsidian McHale. But that'll be next chapter… and once I've done the next chapter: I'll add it to this :)**

**So here is a Tribute List, I need some slots filling:**

**District One**

**Female: Satine Meadowes, 17**

**Male: Obsidian McHale, 18**

**District Two**

**Female: Katherine 'Kat' Jansen Thorne, 16**

**Male:**

**District Three**

**Female:**

**Male: Isuel Hange, 15**

**District Four**

**Female: Lyli Lucille Hollingsworth, 16**

**Male:**

**District Five**

**Female: Megan 'Meggie' Fowler, 13**

**Male: Ander Jansen, 14**

**District Six**

**Female: **

**Male: Telsa Fordham, 17**

**District Seven**

**Female:**

**Male:**

**District Eight**

**Female:**

**Male: Elliot Oxford, 16**

**District Nine**

**Female:**

**Male: Collem Quince, 13**

**District Ten**

**Female: Monique Amberson, 17**

**Male:**

**District Eleven**

**Female: Lilac Waters, 14**

**Male:**

**District Twelve**

**Female: Rayen Taylor, 17**

**Male:**

**So, I need some more tributes! **

**-Ornella**


End file.
